


Senseless

by gogirl212



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Bad Taste, Blindness, Hurt/Comfort, Scents & Smells, Senses, hearing loss, loss of feeling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-01 20:16:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20392660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogirl212/pseuds/gogirl212
Summary: Four times a musketeer lost one of his senses and one time one of them wished he had. A series of short h/c ficlets in response to the July/August fete des Mousquetaires challenge with the theme “Missing”.





	1. Sight

Porthos woke coughing, his throat burning and raw. It was as if he was breathing dirt or dust or . . .ash. It was ash. The fire, the frantic search, the horrendous sound of splintering wood and shattered glass, and the building was coming down — it came back to him in a flash. 

Every breath hurt and he panted as he tried to fill his lungs. The air itself was searing and full of debris that choked him even as he tried to breath. He was on his back, chest constricted and something heavy pressing across his thighs, his right arm was twisted and pinned painfully beneath his own body. He heard the creaking timbers and crackle and rush of hot air. He was in the rubble, the building still on fire around him. He had to free himself, he had to breathe.

He opened his eyes to blackness. Had he fallen through the floor to the cellar? He blinked, the smoke and grit so irritating he could only force himself to lift his lids the tiniest of degrees. It didn’t help, he could see nothing. His eyes felt full of sand and no matter how he tried, he could not clear his vision. Fear rose. He had no idea where in the building he was, how close the flames were, how he could get free.

He began to twist and push, trying to free his right arm while pushing at the thing on his thighs with his left. The exertion to move caused him to pant more and great hacking coughs tore through his lungs. Where were the others? He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see.

“Hey!” his call was rasping and breathless. He panted as the panic rose. “Hey,” he tried again, the sound little more than a wheeze. No one would hear him over the din of a burning building. His skin felt too hot, stretched over a body too big. He thought it was getting hotter, the flames moving closer. No, he was not going to burn. He’d seen that once, a man set on fire, and no, he was not dying that way.

With a great heave he rolled himself to his left side. The debris remained on top of him, but he was able to shift beneath it. His right arm ached but he managed to wriggle it over his hip so the could get both of his arms in front of him. He pushed himself up, arms aching, back straining, shoulders feeling as if the fire was in his very bones. With a crash and a creak something shifted and his upper body was mostly free. He twisted to his belly and pulled himself forward with a strength born of terror and slipped his legs from beneath whatever had been pinning him. 

He scrambled forward blindly until he banged into something rough. A wooden beam? A door? He squinted his eyes open and still nothing but darkness and pain met him. He wondered then if he had eyes left at all? His face stung with a thousand small cuts from the glass of the shattered window that had rained down around him. He let out a desperate cry at the thought of his eyes as mass of shredded flesh and blood. Truly this was hell. He sobbed without tears as he leveraged himself against the obstacle he had encountered, pulling himself up to his feet. 

He got his back against the structure and tried to breathe again. The hot air felt like shrapnel in his chest. He was panting, his breaths shallow. He had to get out. He staggered forward, arms extended in front of him and encountered another obstacle. He spun, running hands along the wood, feeling it tear at his already abraded fingers. He moved frantically, groping along blindly, looking for any open space he could find. He pressed forward, cheek scraping against more wood, lungs burning, his right arm throbbing now in time with his heart beating in his chest. The noise was rising, the rush of flames roaring in his ears. He tried to call out again but only rasping, wheezing sounds made it from his lips. 

He was dying.

He clawed along the wood now, trying to follow what he thought was a wall. A wall that had to have a door. He blindly pushed something out of his way, and heard it crash behind him only to have more debris rain down from above him. It was too hot, he was moving toward the fire. But the wall had to lead out. Somehow there had to be a way out. 

His feet got caught up in something and he fell hard, instinct telling him to roll toward his shoulder even though he had no idea what he was falling on. Pain shot through his right arm. If it hadn’t already been broken, it was now. He howled but only a soundless, choked wheeze came out. 

Porthos found the wall again and again pulled himself up. But his strength was fading, the pain overwhelming. He had tried, tried everything he could think of to live, and this damn building was going to kill him. Blind, alone and in tremendous pain he felt a terror rise him so strongly that his hands began to shake. Something shifted in his mind and he wasn’t a brave, strong musketeer but a little boy trapped in the dark of the Paris catacombs. Terrified, he did now what he had done then, he moved forward, because staying meant dying. Instinct would not let him give up. 

Porthos reached out his hand to find it grasped firmly in the grip of another. A wave of relief broke over him followed by another bout of panic. Like a drowning man clutching at the flotsam in a swollen river he clung with all of his strength to the hand and the arm of the person who had found him. 

He tried to speak, to cry, to breathe and all he could do was rasp and pant as he felt someone grip him below the arm before his body was pulled forward through a close and rough space and suddenly he was past the wall, past the debris, and cool air rushed against his hot skin. There were voices but he didn’t know, didn’t care what they were saying. He knew who was looking for him, knew the hands that had saved him. His arms were lifted as they tried to get a grip on him and he moaned as the broken one was moved. They changed their hold and dragged him forward. 

The terrain changed beneath his stumbling feet and he recognized the soft tread of earth and grass. The roaring sound receding as he continued to gulp in breaths of cool air. 

“D’Artagnan!” that was Aramis on his left then, “Get the water skins, all of them!” The marksman shouted.

“Stop, we’re far enough,” Athos on his right, who was holding him up by the back of his belt and the strength of his shoulder. They stopped moving and Porthos all but fell to his knees, eased from a rough landing by the men on either side of him. 

“Here,” D’Artagnan sounded out of breath, “I’ve brought some cloths too.” Cool water ran over Porthos’s head, onto his face and down the neck of his shirt. Someone was undoing his doublet, someone else held a damp cool cloth to the back of his neck. Porthos hung his head, panting for breath and letting his friends help him. They managed to pull his doublet off although the pain of his broken arm caused him to wince. He cradled the limb into his body trying to keep breathing despite the ache shooting through his arm.

“Where else are you hurt?” Aramis asked from in front of him. Porthos couldn’t bear to answer. He would have cried had there been anything left of his eyes. He pressed his lips together, hoping to keep his despair in check. Aramis must not have liked his lack of answer as he felt sure but gentle hands sliding over his ribs and chest, looking for wounds or breaks in the bone. Porthos tried to stay still but he was bruised and tender and he couldn’t help the small sounds of pain that occasionally broke from his lips.

A comforting hand came to rest at the back of his neck, Athos he assumed by the surety of the touch. 

“What other injuries, Porthos?” Athos’s tone was firm, like he knew he was hiding something. Porthos couldn’t bear to tell them about his eyes. He couldn’t bear to think of it at all. He bit his lip and started to slump toward the ground. 

“Hey, whoa,” D’Artagnan caught him by the shoulder, not letting him fall. He didn’t want the pup to see this. He didn’t want anyone to look at him but he was too weak to fight them. They would know and it would be real.

Strong, warm hands moved to his face and gently but insistently raised his head. He would know Aramis’s touch anywhere. 

“Porthos, are you with us?” the marksman’s voice was quiet but laced with concern. He hated worrying them but what was he supposed to say. He gave a small nod. “That’s good, it’s alright,” Aramis sounded so damn kind. 

“I’m just going to look at these cuts, hold still,” he said and then Aramis shifted his hold to one hand and his fingers started to trace over Porthos’s face. It was oddly reassuring to be so completely in Aramis’s hands. He had worked miracles before. Perhaps there was one for him. 

“Can you open your eyes?” Aramis asked. And there it was. The one thing in the world Porthos would not do. He said nothing, felt his jaw clench and heard the small, sharp intake of breath that signaled Aramis knew. 

“What happened to your eyes?” Aramis asked. Porthos for the life of him could not get his mouth to answer. Aramis changed position, hands on either side of his face again, his body close enough he could feel the warmth between them. “Porthos, what happened? I need to know if I’m going to help you.”

“Porthos,” Athos said, the hand at the back of his neck squeezing slightly. To his left he felt another smaller pair of hands on his shoulder. D’Artagnan too worried for him. Porthos swallowed. He could say this, he could do it.

“Glass,” he grunted out before clamping his jaw shut again.

“You have glass in your eyes?” Aramis sounded incredulous. He felt the hands on his face tense and noticed the marksman’s breathing had quickened. It was as bad as he feared. No one spoke for a moment, the only sound around them the wheezing panting of Porthos’s labored breathing.

“I need to see,” Aramis said softly, “Porthos open your eyes.”

Porthos shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. “Can’t” he said, his voice breaking. Aramis let out a long breath then seemed to relax his grip slightly. 

“Alright, I understand,” he said kindly, “D’Artagnan can you wet that cloth? Yes, that one. Athos can you put your hands here?” Porthos felt the grip on his face shift as Athos, standing behind him, caught up his head between his strong hands. They were going to force him. Porthos tried to struggle but Athos had him firmly and he had no fight really left after what he had been through.

“I’m just going to look,” Aramis said reassuringly, “Try not to fight me. I won’t hurt you.” Porthos knew that Aramis would never willingly cause him pain. But the thought of the bloody ruin that his eyes would be kept the lids tightly closed. He tried to relax, tried not to squeeze his eyes shut but as soon as he felt Aramis’s fingers on his brow he couldn’t help himself. “Sssssh, it’s alright,” Aramis said, smoothing his fingers gently over Porthos eyebrows. Aramis moved his hands down Porthos’s face, pressing gently against the ridge of bone around his eye sockets. It was oddly soothing and as Porthos adjusted to the touch he felt himself relaxing. 

“D’Artagnan, can you raise that lantern?” Aramis was whispering. Porthos felt himself tensing again, but Aramis hushed him again, “I have a damp cloth, I want to get some of the grime off of your face,” Aramis said and then something cool and soft started to feather over his brow, eyes and cheeks. The myriad of tiny cuts stung but the cool water felt good on his face. Once that was done Aramis laid his fingers again on Porthos’s check and brow. 

“I won’t hurt you, I promise,” He said again and then Porthos felt the lid of of right eye tugging slightly forward and lifting. He tried to pull back but Athos held him firmly. Aramis forced him to tilt his face up further and Porthos felt his eyelid pulled higher. He could see nothing but blackness and felt the grit of the glass where it was embedded in his eyes. He couldn’t help it, he cried out in pain and despair.

“Stay still, you are alright,” Aramis reassured him, “I’m going to flush your eye. It’s just water, but it might sting. Try to blink,” Aramis said and then something cold was dripping onto his face and running into his eye. Porthos bucked at that. It stung like needles into his ruined eye and he struggled to get away from the hands, the water, the pain. But Athos was strong and D’Artagnan leaned heavily on his shoulder and Aramis’s hands were steady and unflinching. His eye burned and then reflexes took over and he was blinking rapidly, water and tears falling from beneath his lashes. Porthos couldn’t help it, he sobbed, the same dry hacking sobs of earlier and his breath caught in his raw throat and he felt again like he might be dying.

And then it was over and Aramis let him go. Porthos slumped down on his haunches, leaning heavily against Athos. Athos changed his grip, letting Porthos head rest against his shoulder as he held him with arm around his chest, hand pressed into his sternum as he encouraged him to calm down and catch his breath. Porthos was exhausted.

“You did very well,” Aramis was back, a reassuring hand on his cheek, “Let’s look at it again, alright?” Aramis said, but Porthos knew he was not asking for permission, he was giving him warning. Porthos had no fight left in him. The worst was over, all that was left were the words from Aramis to confirm that his eye had been shredded. It didn’t matter now, nothing mattered, not even the pain. He let Aramis raise the lid.

The world wasn’t black but a swirl of blurry colors that refused to solidify. Porthos stiffened in Athos’s hold and tried to raise a hand to his face to wipe his eye.

“No, no, don’t do that,” Aramis said, catching up his hand, “What can you see?”

“Colors,” Porthos said, “Light?” He wasn’t sure but something had changed. 

“That’s good, that’s very good,” Aramis sounded relieved, “There is no glass in your eye, but there is grit and ash and it is dry from the smoke. We’ll flush it one more time and then let your own tears do the rest of the work. Then we’ll do the other one.” Porthos could tell Aramis was smiling. They all were, he could practically hear it.

“I’m not blind?” Porthos had to ask, had to be sure he understood.

“No, my friend, you are not,” Aramis stroked his cheek, “you will be ogling pretty women and cheating at cards in the span of a week.” 

“I’m not blind,” Porthos said, a huff of laughter escaping from his throat. He heard a rumble in Athos’s chest and realized the stoic Lieutenant was laughing too. All of them were. He didn’t need to see to recognize they shared his relief. The terrors of the fire and the darkness receded. Porthos took his first deep breath since being pulled from the building. He was going to be alright.


	2. Taste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks so much for the great response on that first chapter! It means so much to hear that you are enjoying this story. Any story really, writers really love to know that someone out there is reading this stuff. It keeps us going :)
> 
> This fic is my first attempt at the 4+1 format and anyone who is familiar with my work knows it is a deep challenge for me to write anything short... Wish me luck!
> 
> Disclaimer: I did even less terrible wikipedia medical research on this than I typically do so just go with it and if you are a doctor, I'm sorry.

"You, my friend, are drunk," Aramis said, stripping off his gloves and tossing them on the table as he sat down.

"I haven't had that much," D'Artagnan protested, waving ungracefully at the two bottles on the table. "I only finished one of them."

"You should leave the professional drinking to Athos," Aramis chided, "Speaking of which, where is our stalwart Lieutenant and how did you end up in his chair?" Aramis looked over his shoulder, as if expecting to see Athos seated at another table.

"I don't know where he is," D'Artagnan said, a slight slur to his words. He ran a hand through his mop of brown hair, wiping the sweat from his forehead. It was too hot in here, the Wren was stuffy in Athos's back corner.

"And you are here because…?" Aramis had too many questions.

"I am here because I am not with Constance," D'Artagnan blurted out. "I am here because the woman I love would rather be with a sniveling, money-grubbing little cloth merchant than with me," D'Artagnan rested his elbows on the table and leaned his head into his hands.

"He is her husband," Aramis said with a shrug. D'Artagnan raised his head and gave the marksman a glare before tossing back the rest of the wine in his cup. He took up the remaining bottle and poured himself some more.

"Are you planning on sharing that?" Aramis asked.

"Get your own bottle," D'Artagnan said forlornly. He took another swallow of wine from the cup, then a swig from the bottle. He fumbled at the front fastenings of his leathers and pulled them open at the throat. He didn't care how disheveled he looked. The world could see his misery for all he cared. He leaned back in the chair, glowering.

"He's pickin' up more than swordfightin' from Athos," Porthos apparently had found him too. This was maybe not his best plan for getting drunk. While Aramis and Porthos would give Athos his space they seemed far less inclined to let him just be in his cups for once.

"Can you find us something to eat?" Aramis asked, "And another bottle of wine. Apparently we are on our own." Porthos gave a disapproving huff and wondered back into the crowd.

"D'Artagnan, I know you think this will help, but it will not," Aramis said, sitting forward and depositing his hat beside his gloves. "Have you talked to Constance?"

"She doessen care," D'Artagnan said, "Said it was a fantasy. A child's dream. She never believed in me," D'Artagnan felt his eyes filling with tears. He looked away. He did not plan to cry in front of Aramis.

"Of course she cares," Aramis dismissed his words, "Women rarely tell the truth about what they want. Often it is exactly the opposite of what they say. Give it a little time, she'll come around."

"You don' know," D'Artagnan shook his head, "Constance isn like other women, she's stubborn, and brave and beautiful and …" D'Artagnan trailed off as his stomach flipped and a wave of nausea swept over him. He looked in disgust at the bottle of wine in his hand as if it had betrayed him and pushed it away from him on the table.

"Are you alright?" Aramis laid a hand on his forearm but D'Artagnan shrugged it off.

"Leave me alone," D'Artagnan clenched his jaw and bowed his head into his hands.

"Yeah, just like Athos," Porthos had returned, "Eat this," the big man said shoving a bowl of stew under D'Artagnan's nose. The smell assaulted him.

"Ack no," D'Artagnan pushed the bowl away.

"Eat it," Porthos repeated, pushing the stew toward him again, "Or I'm gonna feed it to you." Aramis chuckled across the table.

"He will you know," Aramis said, "Just ask Athos." D'Artagnan raised his head and glowered at his two friends. They were enjoying his misery. D'Artagnan doubted he could keep the stew down but he rolled his eyes and picked up the spoon. The sooner he ate something, the sooner they'd leave him alone. He'd seen them do this with Athos often enough, managing his drinking with food and forced company but eventually they would move on and leave the swordsman to his own misery until he was ready to be walked home. D'Artagnan took a spoonful of stew and chewed, only to stop halfway through the mouthful.

"This is disgusting," D'Artagnan said, his face wrinkling at the taste.

"What?" Aramis said, looking up from his own bowl, "It's fine. It's the same as always."

"No," D'Artagnan spat the mouthful back into the bowl, much to Porthos's dismay, "it tastes like crap. Like I'm chewing a tin cup." D'Artagnan grabbed the wine again and took a long swallow, only to pull back and look suspiciously at the bottle.

"What did you do this?" He glared at Aramis across the table.

"Do to what?" Aramis looked confused.

"The wine, the food, what did you do?" D'Artagnan was livid, "It all tastes like tin. What did you put in here?"

"I didn't," Aramis replied, his face shifting from confused to concerned, "D'Artagnan are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine!" He pushed himself up from the stool and leaned his hands on the table to steady himself, "I was fine until you showed up," D'Artagnan wiped the sweat from his eyes, his stomach again rebelling at what he had put in there. "Enough of your jokes," D'Artagnan shoved himself back from the table, "I need more wine."

"That's the last thing you need," Aramis stood, stepping around the table to intercept him on his route to the bar. D'Artagnan had had enough — he raised his hands and shoved the marksman away, only to off balance himself and stumble forward into Aramis, who caught him by the shoulders and kept them both from falling. He struggled to get out of the marksman's hold but a big hand clamped down on his neck.

"Whoa, settle down," Porthos said, pulling him off of Aramis and depositing him back in his chair. D'Artagnan couldn't even protest, he was doing all he could to not be sick. "What's goin' on?" Porthos demanded. D'Artagnan swallowed hard and shook his head.

"You don't look good," Porthos said. He saw the glance the big musketeer threw toward Aramis. The marksman stepped closer and ran a hand over D'Artagnan's forehead.

"He's clammy, but no fever," Aramis said, raising a brow, "D'Artagnan, how long have you been feeling badly?" D'Artagnan shrugged and shook his head. He really wasn't sure. Aramis cocked his head, studying D'Artagnan as if he might be a puzzle box he couldn't open. "How are you? Your stomach? Your head?"

"My stomach is sour, my head is throbbing and I just want you to leave me alone," D'Artagnan huffed out.

"He's not sick, he just can't drink like Athos," Porthos suggested.

"Here, see if this helps," Aramis said, pushing another cup toward him. D'Artagnan gave him a suspicious look but Aramis smiled reassuringly, "It's just ale. See if it settles your stomach."

D'Artagnan took up the cup and sniffed it. It smelled alright so he tried a sip. He immediately choked. "Gah," he spat, "it tastes like lead." Across from him, Aramis's brow furrowed.

"I was just drinking that," Aramis said with a glance up to Porthos, "I assure you it's fine. Porthos, your cup," Aramis extended his hand. Reluctantly the large musketeer handed over his wine. "Try this one."

D'Artagnan took it and swallowed. He choked and the wine sprayed from his mouth. "Terrible," he grimaced. "What's happening?" D'Artagnan moaned, clutching his arms around his spasming stomach.

Aramis sat back, eyes narrowing as he considered. He put a hand lightly on D'Artagnan's wrist and he knew the marksman was feeling for his life's blood coursing in his body. Aramis stiffened.

"Poison," he said, his hand coming around D'Artagnan's wrist, "I think you've been poisoned."

"He's not just drunk?" Porthos asked, incredulous at Aramis's diagnosis.

"Well the headache and nausea would suggest that," Aramis explained, "But his heart is beating rapidly and his sense of taste is gone - that suggests something else. Arsenic poisoning is known to cause that over time, but this is likely something else. They symptoms came on quickly."

"Poison, huh?" Porthos shook his head, "Who'd poison the kid? He hasn't been around long enough to make that kind of enemy."

"Bonacieux, perhaps?" Aramis offered, "Or maybe one of Vadim's men escaped?"

"Come to think of it, he was the one who put Bonnaire on that boat," Porthos replied, "And there were those red guards he humiliated when we brought in LeBarge,"

"He's been busy," Aramis sounded impressed.

"Gentleman," D'Artagnan interrupted, "Can we get back to the part where I'm poisoned?" The two older musketeers exchanged a shrug and then they were lifting him by the arms and escorting him out of the Wren.

"Where are we going," D'Artagnan asked, grateful for the cool air of the Paris evening on his sweaty face.

"Back to the garrison," Aramis answered, slinging D'Artagnan's arm over his shoulder. He felt Porthos grab him under the other arm. He was grateful as he stumbled forward between them.

"Am I going to die?" D'Artagnan asked.

"Probably not," Aramis said with a smile, "If it hasn't killed you yet, I doubt it will get much worse. You've stopped eating or drinking whatever it was."

"That's not very reassuring," Porthos said.

"He'll be fine," Aramis amended his statement. "We'll flush the poison from his body and he'll be right as rain in a few days." D'Artagnan didn't want to think about how they would get the poison out. He remembered what Aramis had done when the Cardinal had been poisoned. He didn't relish the idea.

"When I figure out who did this, I'm gonna kill 'em" Porthos said with a smile, "Don't worry."

"Thank you?" D'Artagnan wasn't sure how to respond to that.

"There is a bright side here," Aramis pointed out. D'Artagnan looked at him suspiciously, "Well when she finds out, the lovely Madame Bonacieux is sure to rush to your side. She'll probably even want to nurse you back to health."

With all of his experience with women, D'Artagnan suspected Aramis was probably right. At least he hoped he was. If that did happen, D'Artagnan decided a little poisoning was more than worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I needed a little break after the terrible ordeal Porthos went through . . . don't worry, we return to our regularly scheduled programming in the next chapter.


	3. Hearing

It was chaos in minutes. The musketeers, riding at the head of the column as part of the honor guard for the Duc d’Orleans took the brunt of the ambush head on. The attack was well planned because the route back to the royal residence had been widely published so that Louis might make news of his reconciliation with his brother work to its best effect. Enemy cannons had been positioned on the ridge on either side of the road and trenches dug in the hillsides to prevent the soldiers from riding up. Battle commanders were separated from their units, women and children were in the procession along with the royals and nobles. It was a disaster on all accounts.

None of that stopped Athos and the Musketeers at the head of the procession from quickly organizing and mounting a counter-attack. The red guard were with the Duke and they were going to have to suffice as there was no way for the king’s elite guard to make it back to the center of the column. Athos quickly decided a counter-assault on the enemy cannons was the only hope. If they could gain control of the cannons on the right bank, they could use them to target the ones on the opposite side. Athos lead his men in a fierce and desperate battle to the top of the ridge - getting those cannons was life or death for all of them.

At the top of the ridge, the group split - Aramis and Porthos taking half the contingent to the first canon while D’Artagnan and Athos took the rest to press on to the second. The din of the battle rose around them as bullets flew and swords classed on the road below them. The scream of wounded horses punctuated the cries of of men and cannon fire sounded as the blasts ripped through the troops on the road. There was a victorious shout from behind him and Athos turned to see that the first group had taken their objective — the enemy canon was now in their control and it was swinging upward to target the opposite ridge. Athos spared himself a quick smile as relief flooded over him, they could win this thing. He just hoped they could do it quickly enough that their party trapped below would still be alive. He was turning back toward the second cannon when a whistle of air warned him that a cannon ball was incoming. The enemy must have spotted them on the ridge and were firing at them despite the risk to their own men. Instinct born of other battles took over and Athos dove to the ground.

The ball hit near him, shaking the earth and sending debris across his body. Athos got to his feet to look for D’Artagnan just as the the munitions beside the second canon burst in a tremendous explosion. Athos was hurled to the ground by the blast, shrapnel shredding into his unprotected face and hands. He hit the ground hard, his head bouncing on the packed earth, his body feeling as if a carriage had run over it. Stunned, Athos felt as if his insides had been shaken, nothing registering right as he struggled to sit up. 

His head was pounding and his vision blurred. Athos pushed himself to his feet, confused about where he was. His ears were ringing but all other sounds were muffled and unclear. He could see the puff of smoke from musket fire and see the men locked in combat but could not hear the ring of blades or the shouts of his companions. He staggered forward through smoke and haze and a strange quietness buried beneath the piercing ring of bells in his head. He called out, but could not hear his own voice. Athos looked frantically around him but no one seemed to see him. Was he dead? Was he a ghost on this field? 

Something slammed into him hard and he hit the ground again. A body covered his own, pressing him into the earth as something rained down around them. Winded, Athos could not move as he fought to breathe. He felt like he was underwater, drowning alone in silence save for the shrill sound drilling into his head.

The person on top of him shifted, lifting off his chest and Athos gasped for air. Hands gripped his face and Athos forced his eyes open to see D’Artagnan’s before him. He blinked blood and sweat from his eyes and tried to see the boy clearly. D’Artagnan’s lips were moving but no sound came out. He thought maybe he was saying his name, but Athos wasn’t sure what he was seeing. He felt sick and closed his eyes to the swirling images and let the piercing ring in his ears shatter his skull. A warm hand lay over his brow and stilled him. He tried to concentrate on the comfort of the touch but his head ached and his ears felt filled with cotton. Athos felt panic rising as he lost touch with his own senses. 

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there before he felt himself being lifted and then his stomach flipped as he was turned in the air. He opened his eyes again to see the ground bouncing beneath him, the blood rushing to his head replacing the ringing in his ears with the roar of his beating heart. 

Finally there was mercy as Athos slipped into oblivion.

***  
When he came to, it was in silence. Athos woke on his back, laying on something hard and uncomfortable. He shifted his hands to find earth beneath his fingers. He forced his eyes open but saw nothing but blackness. His heart quickened in his chest— was this a grave? His breath game in great gulps and he wondered if there was enough air. Athos’s hands reflexively clutched at the earth, trying to find something to hold on to. The silence frightened him. Where was everyone? Why was he alone? 

He tried to call out but the only sound he produced was a low moan. It sounded strange and loud in his own head, but at least it wasn’t the abysmal silence he had woken to. As if in response to his wordless call the light around him began to grow. Athos pressed himself up on his elbows. He tried to call out again but could not form words, just sounds. Sounds that echoed and bounced and seemed unnatural in the confines of his own head. He squeezed his eyes shut against the dread that washed over him.

“Athos, easy,” Aramis’s voice was low and soothing and like water to a parched man. Athos had never been so grateful to hear something in all of his life. Athos opened his eyes again to find the features of his friend’s face outlined by the light of a flickering candle. He was so relieved to see him that he closed his eyes again and let out the most pitiful of sighs. Aramis chuckled softly.

“You are so dramatic,” the marksman teased but Athos could hear the warmth in his words. Still, it all sounded wrong - hollow and soft as if he wasn’t really here. Athos flickered his eyes open again as Aramis tucked a hand beneath his head, the strong grip reassuring and so desperately real. “Can you sit up?” 

Aramis didn’t wait for an answer, just helped Athos shift off his back and raise himself up so he was sitting. He swayed a little as he found his balance but found he could breathe better now that he was off his back. He looked around, confused at what he was seeing.

“We’re in a small cave,” Aramis explained as he pulled a cork from a wine bottle. Athos’s mind finally registered where it was - his eyes adjusted to the candlelight and he could see enough now to realize he was in a long cavern with a low ceiling. Aramis handed him the wine and Athos took a long swallow.

“What happened?” He finally asked, grateful at the words he could hear from his own lips. They bounced oddly in the strange underground space.

“You were knocked senseless by an explosion on the battlefield. Porthos carried you here,” Aramis explained, “You were confused—we have been worried,” he added softly.

“Now who is dramatic,” Athos said dryly. Aramis rewarded him with a smile.

“Well I can see your head is intact as far as that goes,” he replied, “How is your vision? Your hearing?”

“Restored,” Athos said tersely. He didn’t want to talk about the eerie soundless battlefield or the feeling of being unseen in all the chaos. “Why am I here? Where is everyone else?”

“You seemed in great pain,” Aramis said, his face shifting to seriousness and worry, “and overwhelmed by whatever it was you were seeing and hearing. But you did not seem to be hearing us,” he added, “This place is where they were storing the munitions. There are crates piled up in the back...I thought it best you have quiet.”

Athos nodded. He had scared them. He had scared himself truth be told. He took another drink of wine.

“The battle?” Athos preferred to focus on something other than himself.

“We won, of course,” Aramis said with a shrug, “The Duke and his party are safe, the wounded are being tended to, and we have two canons to add to our arsenal.”

“Only two?” Athos asked

“Well, they blew one up trying to defend it from you and then I blew up another,” Aramis smiled, “They gave up after that.”

“Can we get out of here?” Athos said, looking nervously around him, “This is too much like a tomb for my liking.”

“Of course,” Aramis said pushing himself to his feet. He offered a hand to Athos and helped pull him to almost standing. Crouching slightly, they made their way out of the cave. 

The daylight was bright against his eyes and Athos squinted to look around him. The camp was noisy and bustling as they prepared to gather their prisoners and finish their journey to Orlean. Across the way D’Artagnan spotted him and gave a shout and called out joyously to Porthos. And then Athos was surrounded by a group of happy, chatty musketeers all wanting to know how he was and tell them him about the battle and point out that the red guard had of course, done nothing and Athos found it all overwhelming and indecipherable and absolutely music to his ears.


	4. Feeling

When he had first gone into the water, Aramis thought he could make it to shore. It really wasn’t far and he was a strong swimmer. But the current was strong, the river swollen with the runoff of melting snow and after only half a dozen strokes or so he found his strength waning, sapped by the unrelenting flow of water and the cruel cold that settled into his very bones. 

He got a hand around a branch and his progress downstream stalled. The others called out to him, wading into the water but even as he watched them draw near, he felt his grip failing. With a gasp and a cry he was pulled from the branch and plunged into the depths of the churning waters.

He was tossed and turned like flotsam in the current. He tried his best to keep his head above water but his body was battered by rocks beneath raging river. Several times he was pulled under and only by determination and luck did he manage to find the surface again. It went on like that endlessly, a frantic tumble with Aramis gulping water and air in equal measure as he was pummeled by rocks and debris. At some point he got ahold of a large branch careening down the waterway with him and managed to hang on.

Eventually the water around him slowed. The current was still strong, but the battering stopped as the river widened out. The branch got caught up on some other debris and Aramis found himself floating and exhausted not far from the shoreline. His knees bumped into rocks below the surface and with what was left of his strength, Aramis swung his feet downward. He touched ground and pressed upward to find he could stand waist deep at the edge of the river. The currents formed eddies around him and it was a fight to force himself over the rocky riverbed toward the shore. But Aramis knew that to stop was to die and that was not something he would allow himself. If the river was going to take him, it was going to be a fight.

The branch that had saved him continued to be his guide. Caught on other branches toward the shallower waters of the bank he had something to hold onto each time he stumbled. The walk out of the water felt like leagues but eventually trembling legs led him up out of the icy water and onto the pebbly bank. He was barely two steps beyond the water’s edge when he collapsed, unable to stand any longer, his body wracked with coughs as it expelled the river water he had inhaled. 

Utterly exhausted, Aramis rolled onto his back, staring up at the blue sky peeking through the canopy of of budding trees. He thought he should get out of his wet clothes, knew in fact how dangerous it was to be wet and cold and exposed to the elements but he could not get his fingers to cooperate. He fumbled with the buckles on his coat but he could not really feel the toggles beneath his fingertips. He raised a hand and noticed a bluish tinge. This was bad. He knew that. But something else was happening to his body.

The wracking shivers that had coursed through him in the water were gone. His hands no longer trembled, his fingers didn’t ache with cold. His mind felt clear and the peace of the open sky and the gurgle of the water were comforting. There was intense beauty in this moment and a clarity of thought Aramis had long sought for yet never found despite all of the hours spent on his knees before God. A deep and abiding peace washed over him as the cold lifted from his body and his breathing began to slow. 

He no longer felt the rocky ground beneath him or the ache of the bruises from his journey down the river. His feet were no longer cold, his hands rested on his chest but he felt nothing beneath his palms. His body felt like it was floating, already beginning its journey to Heaven. Aramis sighed, overwhelmed by the joy of this moment and the utter calm that descended over him. The turmoil in his soul quieted and he felt guilt, shame, and sadness slip away. This was death and it was painless and perfect. Why had he been afraid of it for so long when the very peace he had fought to find had been waiting for him the whole time?

As the veil between this world and the next slowly lifted, Aramis remembered how greatly he had loved and how surely beloved he had become to others. He felt nothing beyond the halo of love that surrounded him. The sun peeked from the clouds and though he could not feel the warmth on his face it was still glorious to behold. Birdsong and water echoed in his ears and he drifted. Sleep beckoned him and he was no longer fighting. God had lifted the pain from his body and now would lift his spirit home. 

In the distance someone called his name.

Aramis thought he should answer. Knew he would be hard to find on this river bank, sheltered as it was by rocks and trees. The call grew insistent but Aramis could no longer control his body to respond. He felt nothing, not his tongue between his teeth nor the breeze on his face. It would be alright - they would be alright. Dying was so much easier than living.

Someone was scrambling down the river bank. He could hear them. Then a face came into his line of vision, and another and they were shouting to someone else. Three faces, more beloved to him than any other were here to see him to Heaven. Aramis thought he must be crying but he could not feel the tears on his cheeks.

“Aramis stay with us,” D’Artagnan pleaded, urgent and concerned. Aramis wanted to reassure him that he was alright, but his tongue would not move. He blinked languidly as sleep fought to win him over but he did not want to lose sight of the faces before him.

“Hey, just hold on,” Porthos was clutching a pale hand in his. Aramis let his eyes drift down to follow the wrist to its arm - his own arm. He saw Porthos rubbing his fingers but he felt nothing in his hand. Something of concern registered in Aramis at that. He should of course feel his brother’s touch. The peace that had settled over him was cracking, there was something dangerous here. Yet he could not move, could not feel anything. 

Aramis took a shuddering breath and his head rolled to the side. Athos was there, his face stoic as ever but his eyes — those steel blue eyes were full of a thousand torments and Aramis realized he would do anything to stop the hurt he saw there.

“Be still, we have you,” Athos said and reached out a hand to push the hair from Aramis’s eyes. Aramis wanted to answer but all he could do was sigh. 

Athos was still speaking. “D’Artagnan, go up the bank and get a fire started. Get the bedrolls, all of them and whatever dry clothes we have.” The boy looked worried but he left Aramis’s line of vision and he heard him scrambling up the hill. “Porthos, get him out of these wet things. Then we'll get him up the bank.” Porthos laid the hand back down and then they were fussing over him, undoing the toggles of his leathers that he could not feel. He was so grateful to see them and he didn’t want to leave them but he was so tired. His eyes drifted closed but they kept calling his name. He held on to that for as long as he could until finally his mind followed his body into the empty, senseless place of nothing.

XxxX

Aramis woke shivering. He was so cold his entire body trembled, his teeth chattered in his head. Where his sense of touch had abandoned him on the river bank it had returned with a vengeance to pummel his bruised body and torture his aching limbs. His fingers and feet burned with cold and his muscles were contorted and tense as he curled into himself. He was on his side, blankets piled over him, something warm at his back and across his feet. He was miserable. He was alive. A low moan escaped from his lips.

Immediately someone shifted and a warm hand was on his cheek and another was clutching his hand, igniting pins and needles through his fingers. Aramis bit his lip and tired not to cry out again.

“Aramis, open your eyes,” the voice was soft but insistent. Athos. Always like that their Lieutenant. He remembered the infinite sadness he had seen on the riverbank and found that unbearable. He opened his eyes. Athos smiled. A rare and beautiful thing.

“You had us worried,” Athos said as his warm fingers slid over Aramis’s face and smoothed the hair from his brow. Aramis clutched the hand that gripped his, relishing the feel of its surety and warmth despite the pain in his hand. He had no intention of letting go.

“‘Mm….sorry,” Aramis managed to get out between chattering teeth.

“Picked a bad day for a swim,” Porthos rumbled from behind him. The wall of warmth suddenly made sense. It was Porthos pressed along the length of his back. Aramis tried to smile at the joke but it was more like a grimace between the shivers.

“Try not to do that again,” D’Artagnan admonished from somewhere by his feet. Was the boy sitting on them? Aramis tried to laugh but couldn’t really catch his breath around the shivering. “Here, this is ready,” D’Artagnan said and then a cup was passed to Athos.

“Can you sit up?” Athos asked, “I want to get something warm in you.” Aramis wasn’t really sure he had much control over his body at all, but he let Porthos and Athos maneuver him into a sitting position. The piles of blankets fell onto his lap and he realized he was dressed in one of Porthos’s shirts and little else. They were in a tent of some kind, the blue of the fabric must be their cloaks. At Aramis’s feet, just beyond where D’Artagnan was sitting, was a roaring fire. The cup they handed him was steaming. He pressed his trembling fingers around it, the warmth of it both painful and reassuring. 

“It’s mulled wine,” D’Artagnan assured him when Aramis seemed to hesitate.

Aramis raised the cup to his lips and carefully sipped, letting the warm, spiced wine slide into his mouth and send a trail of heat into the very center of his body. It was painful, but it was bliss to be back in this world, surrounded by his friends as the warmth of life creeped back into his limbs. They adjusted the blankets around him — the saddle blankets he realized by the smell — and someone draped another of their long cloaks over his shoulders. He was still shivering, but less violently. They pressed together closely in the small makeshift tent, Aramis relishing the comfort of strong shoulders and backs lending him their warmth and support. The cold was deep in his bones and it might be hours before he was warm again but Aramis sighed contentedly. Whatever peace he thought had been calling to him on that riverbank had been false. This right here, this was his Heaven. This time, he could feel the joyful tears on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for following this and reading! I have to finish the last chapter so expect the final installment to post on saturday, in time to qualify for the fete des Mousquetaires challenge. All of the fics in the challenge are posted on the forum at ffn - great authors and great fics! Read them all and then vote :)


	5. Smell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one gets a little gory, so if you don’t like descriptions of corpses, don’t read the first 3 paragraphs after the XxxX. Thank you to everyone who has gone on this little h/c journey of missing senses!

“Athos, wake up,” warm hands gripped his face as Athos was wrenched from a restless sleep. His mind was fuzzy, part of it still in the hold of a terrible dream but he blinked his eyes open to Aramis’s brown eyes staring urgently into his own.

“What,” Athos breathed heavily, shaking off the throes of the dream only to have the reality of their current nightmare come back full force. They were captive of a rebel Comte, languishing as prisoners in his cellars while the King negotiated a treaty in nearby Toulouse. They four of them had been captured enroute to join the rest of the regiment and had been held for days now, beaten and tortured with a collection of other men the Comte thought might have the information he sought. They had been kept in foul and filthy conditions with no food, little water, and chained to the walls of a cell.

“Here, you need to drink this,” Aramis said, holding a cup to his lips. Athos was confused but Aramis was half pouring the bitter liquid down his throat before he was sure what was happening. Athos took it down in several great gulps, some of the liquid escaping from the corners of his mouth and running down his beard. 

“Aramis, stop,” He pushed Aramis away with the hand that was not shackled to the wall, “What’s going on? What is that? How are you not chained?” They had not been able to come near each other for days. Somehow Aramis was free.

“IThey brought me medical supplies,” Aramis explained, his eyes darting nervously around the cell.

“Medical supplies?” Athos tried to make sense of what Aramis was saying, “They’ve barely fed us for the better part of a week, why would they help us now? Where are the others?” Athos tried to see around the marksman but he held him still. Aramis looked agitated and sent a quick glance over his shoulder before leaning in even closer to Athos. 

“Porthos’s knee is swollen, the leg might be broken. I’ve bandaged it. D’Artagnan is struggling, he’s been beaten very badly, he is likely concussed. I gave them both something to help with the pain. Now please, We have very little time,” Aramis insisted.

“How did you get these things?” Athos needed to know. 

“I convinced them,” Aramis licked his lips as Athos continued to silently demand more of an answer from him, “I gave them something they wanted,” the marksman finally conceded.

Athos did not miss the moment Aramis’s gaze flicked away from his, no longer able to look him in the eye. He considered the reaction and then Athos realized what Aramis had done and he tightened his grip on Aramis’s wrist. His emotions roiled within him — something between anger at the man’s abject stupidity and a fierce desire to kill whoever had laid hands on him surged through him. 

“Stop, I’m fine. Now finish this Athos, or its all for nothing,” Aramis said fiercely. Athos grabbed the cup and downed the remainder, his eyes locked intently on the marksman’s. 

“What the hell was that?” Athos wrinkled his nose at the bitter taste.

“Salvation,” Aramis said softly with a sad smile. He set the cup aside and grabbed Athos’s face in his hands again and started whispering fervently, “You are our salvation. Our leader. Where you go, we follow,” Aramis’s words were urgent, his eyes bright . . . fever-bright? Athos raised his unchained hand to Aramis’s brow. The man was burning up, how had he not noticed before?

“You are fevered,” Athos said, worried.

“I know,” Aramis said, a thin sheen of sweat glowing on his face in the candlelight. He looked almost otherworldly, “I am dying. We all are. D’Artagnan is slipping away. Porthos is locked in some terrible part of his mind - he will not speak. Should we survive what they intend for us next, we will die in this cell of rot and disease,” Aramis leaned down so their foreheads touched, “Salvation is waiting for you. You must return to the church in your hour of death. Do not forget the church.”

“Aramis, what…?” The marksman was making no sense. Was Aramis’s fever so bad that he was delirious? He shifted to push Aramis back by the shoulders and a wave of dizziness passed over him. He swayed feeling off balance, his tongue too thick in his mouth, his hands trembling.

“Aramis, what did you do?” Athos slurred even as his head spun and he pitched to the side. The marksman was there to support him, catching him in his arms even as Athos felt himself losing control over his own body.

“Death is the only way out,” Aramis said, holding Athos tenderly to his chest. The marksman laid his cheek beside his as Athos found himself losing control of his limbs, “I’m sorry, mon ami, I’m sorry,” Aramis whispered, “It was the only way. I can’t bear what I know they will do to you next. You have to do this, for all of us. Our salvation is through you,” Aramis whispered, stroking Athos’s check, “Don’t fight it. Your are in God’s hands. Reminder the church,” Aramis kept murmuring those words over and over to Athos. Aramis’s mind was broken, he had gone mad and now he had poisoned him. Aramis in all of his religious fervor had given them death, salvation from this place the only way he could. Athos felt dizzy, a blackness encroaching around him as his heart filled with a sorrow so deep he felt hollow. He wanted to reach up and touch Aramis’s face as he knew how devastated his friend must be but he could not. His body was cold, so cold and he gave a mighty shiver as Aramis held him tighter. Athos stopped fighting . . . And then he was gone into blackness.

XxxxX

Like Lazarus called back from the dead, Athos came awake abruptly, lurching up to a sitting position and taking in a great heaving breath. He immediately choked on the smell of death. The stench of rot and decay was overwhelming and Athos gagged, his empty stomach spasming in a reflex to eject its contents. He spat bile and something bitter from his mouth as his eyes watered from the power of the smell. He tried not to breathe but his body craved air and he took in great gulps of the putrid gasses around him and choked on every breath.

He forced his eyes open to find himself in a shallow pit beneath a glowing red sky. Around him the decomposing corpses of men and women stared back at him with lifeless eyes. Horrified, Athos scrambled to get out of the pit, clawing over the bloated corpses, his hands and body coated in foul liquids that emanated more nauseating smells. He stopped several times as his stomach convulsed and heaved against the rot and death that assaulted his nose. He lost himself somewhere in the madness of trying to escape.

When his mind cleared, he was laying on his back on soft earth, the red sky was deepening to indigo and the air on his face cool and less foul. He took several breaths, concentrating on the steady rise and fall of his chest trying to understand what was happening. He sat up, taking in the area around him. 

He sat at the edge of a mass grave —a grave that he had been thrown into. He closed his eyes and sorted through his memories. Things were fuzzy, like his mind was shrouded in fog. But he remembered they had been captured, the enemy was cruel, the conditions in their cell inhumane and then Aramis holding him as the breath left his body. Aramis, his friend and his brother, who had poisoned him. That couldn’t be right . . . But yet here he was among the dead.

Athos felt untethered from himself and unable to keep hold clearly of his thoughts. The breeze changed and the smell of rot and decay wafted up from the pit. He had to move, he had to leave this place. Wherever he was, he could not bear it here another minute longer. He scrambled to his feet, completely disoriented. He was in a forest somewhere, the red of the sky was not Hell but sunset. He couldn’t just stagger off into the woods - he could not be very far from the Comte who had been holding them. He spun and his eyes found the spire of a distant church silhouetted against the darkening sky.

Church. Aramis had told him to remember the church. That he was their salvation. Finally Athos figure it out. That son of bitch hadn’t poisoned him, he had drugged him. His bitter concoction let Athos seem as dead — so much so he was pitched here among the Comte’s other victims. Everything about what Aramis had done was wrong and yet, it was damned brilliant. 

Aramis must have known somehow that the village was close. Athos staggered off in the direction of the distant spire. He had no idea how long he had lain with dead in the pit but he had to hurry if he was to rescue his brothers-in-arms before they too were numbered among the corpses.

XxxxX

Nearly a full day passed before Athos returned to their prison with a large contingent of the Musketeer regiment, Treville at its head. The Musketeers had been searching for them for several days and it was simply providence that Athos had stumbled into the nearby town half out of mind just as two musketeers were entering the Inn to get some food after another fruitless day of searching. 

Athos had been nearly incoherent, but one of the musketeers had gotten a fresh horse and made a mad ride to Toulouse while the other saw Athos fed and put to bed. In the morning Athos went down to the river and bathed until his body was trembling with the cold but he could no longer smell the stench of death. He had his clothes burned and borrowed pants and shirt from his comrade. By the time Treville rode into town, he was nearly a living being again.

It took a little time to find the estate, but once they did, the Musketeers made quick work of the Comte and his mercenaries. The Comte had Treville and the discipline of the men under his command to thank for his life, for not a man among them would have hesitated otherwise to kill him for what he had done to their sword-brothers.

Athos remembered that they had been kept a stone cell that was accessed through the root cellar. He lead them to the entrance buried in the earth behind the manor house. He and the others had entered here nearly a fortnight ago. It was hard to imagine they had lost that much time in that dark place. Athos pulled open the heavy door and was assaulted by the familiar smell of putrefaction and decay. He staggered backward, senses overwhelmed even as his mind tried to contemplate the impossible.

“No, no, they can’t be . . .,” Athos sank to his knees, gulping for air. A comforting hand found his back and he looked up to find Treville crouched beside him.

“Easy, son. I’ll go,” he said. Athos didn’t want to be this weak but the smell was more than he could overcome and he nodded tersely to his Captain. He and the other Musketeers pulled up their collars and put their handkerchiefs over their noses to block some of the smell and they quietly descended into the cellar. Athos lost track of time or maybe it just stopped as he waited to know if anyone at all was left alive.

They brought Porthos out first. He walked stiffly on his bad leg, supported by men on either side, but walk he did. Athos felt relief was over him and he pushed himself up to his feet. Athos greeted him with a hand to the back of his neck and a kiss pressed to his forehead. Porthos remained silent, his body tense and rigid, but he leaned into Athos’s hold and let out a long breath. They parted, with Athos clapping Porthos on the arm as they made way for the next one to come up.

D’Artagnan walked alone, shrugging off the hands of the Musketeer who tried to help him at the top of the stairs. He was draped in someone’s blue cloak and it hung limply from his shoulders. His face was gaunt, his eyes vacant and he looked like a walking corpse himself. It broke Athos’s heart to see the spirited Gascon reduced to this shell of himself. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his young friend. This was one touch that seemed welcome as D’Artagnan did not pull away. Athos held the boy against his chest as he waited for one more miracle.

They carried Aramis out, using another of their cloaks as a makeshift stretcher. He was pale as a ghost and unmoving and Athos felt his breath catch in his chest as he reflexively tightened his grip on D’Artagnan. To go through all they had endured just to lose Aramis now at the moment of rescue was too cruel a thing for his God to inflict on them. It couldn’t be true.

Treville, following behind his men, immediately went to Athos’s side.

“He lives,” Treville said, a hand on Athos’s shoulder, “He is weak and the fever has a hold on him, but we will take care of him. We will take care of all of you,” Treville added, putting a reassuring hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder as well. That seemed to pull D’Artagnan back to an awareness of where he was as he stepped back from Athos’s hold, wiping a hand over his face and dashing the unshed tears from his eyes.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said softly.

“We’ll spend the night here, the house is ours,” Treville said, “We all need food. You two better find a place to collapse that isn’t out here,” he admonished, but he left the two musketeers to make their way back on their own. Athos waited with D’Artagnan as the remainder of the musketeers filed out of their former prison. 

“Were there no other survivors?” Athos asked as the last man came up from cellars.

“All were dead except our men,” he said, “How you survived that place . . . It’s God grace,” he said gently. “We’ll bury the dead tomorrow,” he added then gave Athos a clap on the shoulder and left to rejoin the rest of the men. Athos and D’Artagnan stood silently together, looking at the closed door that lead to their prison, each lost in their own thoughts.

“We should burn that place,” D’Artagnan finally said, “No one should ever go down there again.”

“Agreed,” Athos said, wishing his memories of their prison and his time in the pit of the dead could all be burned away as easily. He looked at the young Musketeer by his side, already standing taller and looking more like himself than he had when he came up from the ground, “We should get you some food,” Athos said with a smile.

“No,” D’Artagnan turned to him, jaw set and determined, “A bath. I want the stench of death off of me. Off all of us,” he added. Athos nodded. He would not argue that. They would find Porthos and go down to the river together. And if Aramis was well enough by tomorrow, they would take him down there too. 

“Let’s find the others,” Athos said suddenly longing for the warmth of the house and the companionship of his other two brothers. They turned toward the house and Athos put an affectionate arm over D’Artagnan’s shoulders “And I think I smell a bottle of wine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no plans for a group bathing sequel - so don’t ask LOL! This fic is part of the fete des Mousquetaires challenge on ffn - check out the forum for a list of all of the fics for July/Augus and please vote for your favorites.


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